It started with a fire.
Not the usual kind—no exploding soup pots or shadowy fireballs of doom this ti.
Just a small, perfectly average candle.
And a big, very not-average problem: Rhea's emotions kept lighting things on fire.
"I think we need to teach you magical control," I said.
Rhea, who was hanging upside down from the sofa, raised one eyebrow.
"I have control."
"You lted your toothbrush this morning because it poked your gum."
"It insulted my mouth with cheap bristles."
"That's not how that works."
I set the candle down on the table between us. It was short. Round. Plain.
Vanilla-scented, for so reason. The kind you'd find in a bakery-thed spa.
"This," I declared, "is your new teacher."
"I shall call him Gerald," Rhea said, sitting upright dramatically.
"Gerald's job is to help you learn fire control. If you can light him gently—and then put him out—without lting him, you win."
She narrowed her eyes. "So it's a ga."
"Yes."
"Do I get a prize?"
"You get the satisfaction of not burning down our kitchen."
She squinted harder. "I want a cookie."
"Fine. One cookie per success."
She grinned like a gremlin. "I accept this mortal contract."
Round One: She puffed out her cheeks. Focused. Concentrated.
A small spark flickered from her finger.
Fwoom.
Gerald exploded into flas.
We both stared at it.
"...He died bravely," Rhea whispered, placing her hand over her heart.
Round Two: I replaced the candle. She tried again.
This ti, a flicker—gentle. Almost there.
Then her face scrunched. She sneezed. Pfwump. Another mini-explosion.
I calmly pushed the fire extinguisher closer to her side of the table.
Round Five: It was working.
The candle flared, but only slightly. It didn't crack. The wick glowed orange, not blue-violet.
She looked stunned. "I... did it."
I offered her a cookie.
She took it like a queen accepting tribute.
Then stuffed it in her mouth and mumbled, "Gerahl livesh."
"Try putting it out now."
She blinked, chewed, and raised her finger again.
Instead of a blast, a curl of smoke danced from her fingertip. The fla hissed and vanished.
The wax was untouched.
"I am a god," she whispered.
"Easy there, Flabrain."
"Did you see that? I was like—whoosh!—and then pfft!"
"Yes, very whoosh-pfft."
She wiggled with glee. "Gerald has ascended to candle heaven and returned to tell the tale."
We kept practicing.
All day.
Sotis she got it. Sotis she blew up half a table runner.
But slowly, gradually, she learned. She started giggling instead of panicking when it went wrong. She relaxed. Focused.
Every successful light-and-extinguish round got a cheer.
And a cookie.
Which ant by sundown, she was full of sugar and self-esteem.
We sat on the porch as evening set in. Rhea was curled up with Gerald the candle in her lap like he was a sacred artifact.
I watched her quietly.
The glow of the setting sun painted her face in soft gold. Her hair, wild and tangled from a day of movent, shimred in the light.
She looked... calm.
That was rare.
"Thanks," she said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For the ga."
I smiled. "You're welco. It helps, doesn't it?"
She nodded. "It made feel... real."
I turned toward her. "What do you an?"
She looked down at her hands.
"Sotis," she said slowly, "I still feel like I'm trapped. Like I'm a dream walking around in a body too small for . Like any second, I'll wake up in my old throne room with twelve generals and a war map."
I stayed quiet.
"I rember being big. Powerful. Cold. I rember crushing cities with a glance."
She looked up at , eyes searching.
"But when you make gas like this... when you laugh, and bake, and yell at for burning tea towels... I don't feel like the Demon Queen."
Her voice went soft.
"I feel like ."
My throat tightened.
Rhea looked away. "You don't treat like a monster."
"Because you're not."
"You don't treat like a goddess either."
"That'd be weird."
She snorted.
"You just treat like... a dumb kid who needs to learn fire safety."
I leaned back on my elbows. "You are a dumb kid who needs to learn fire safety."
"And that," she said quietly, "makes feel safe."
A long silence followed.
The wind rustled the trees. Sowhere, an owl hooted.
Then.
"I think Gerald's looking at ."
I blinked. "He's a candle."
"I think he respects now."
"Great. Just don't marry him."
"I can't. He's in love with Susan."
"Who's Susan?"
She pulled another candle from her pocket. "This one. She's peppermint-scented and emotionally unavailable."
"...I need a drink."
That night, before bed, I found her drawing faces on her new candle friends with ink and glue.
Gerald wore a crown.
Susan had a scarf.
They sat on the windowsill, facing the moonlight.
I watched her whisper sothing to them as she tucked herself in.
Then she looked at .
"Will you still make gas when I'm big again?"
I paused.
"If I can," I said, "I'll invent a hundred of them."
Her smile was soft. Not mischievous. Not smug.
Just... gentle.
"Good."
She fell asleep with Gerald in her arms.
To be continued...
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